


Little Indulgences

by Decepticonsensual



Series: The Festival of Mortilus [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous requested: "Any cute coupling. Post binge comfort cuddling. Somebody ate too many sweets."  Cyclonus shares a moment with an over-stuffed Tailgate after Rodimus introduces the crew to the Festival of Mortilus, Earth style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Indulgences

**Author's Note:**

> See series page for further information about the Festival of Mortilus.

Tailgate eased into the chair by the portal, wincing a little as his weight settled and his stretched plating shifted.  “Ooof!”

“I will not say that I told you so,” Cyclonus intoned in that low, resonant voice of his, “but you  _did_ consume about half the contents of your…”  He tilted his head to study the object on the table, now only half-full of energon sweets, the rim of it marked with sticky fingerprints.  “Strange orange head-receptacle.”

“It’s called a pumpkin, Rodimus said –” The minibot broke off, panting a little, and rubbed a hand over the plating of his abdomen.  It was slightly distended from the fullness of his fuel tank, making Tailgate’s lush curves seem all the more exaggerated.  “He said it was an Earth tradition for the Festival of Mortilus.”

“These…  _organics_ celebrate the triumph over Mortilus?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s exactly the same; they call it something weird.  But it’s about death, and they have costumes like we do, and Rewind says that maybe our stories got passed to them somehow?  He says that sometimes happens with younger species, even if they’ve never met Cybertronians.  He called it…”  Tailgate wriggled more deeply into the cushions.  “Spontaneous transmission, that was it.”

Cyclonus scoffed, but he did so briefly and under his breath.  “And is that why you’ve been going around to every member of the crew and demanding that they furnish you with sweets?  Some organic corruption of a sacred Cybertronian feast?”

“It’s a very old Earth custom,” Tailgate said with dignity, folding his hands over his swollen stomach.

“Tailgate, their species didn’t even  _exist_ until the last days of the war.  It is impossible for there to be a very old Earth  _anything._ ”  He titled his head and watched Tailgate.  “What are you doing?”

“Trying – to get –”  Tailgate gave up on trying to leverage himself into a better position and fell back, huffing.  “Comfortable.”  He turned a large, plaintive blue visor up at Cyclonus.  “Okay, maybe I did have a little too much to eat.”

Rolling his optics upwards in mute appeal, Cyclonus crossed the room, lifted Tailgate as though he weighed nothing, and lowered himself into the chair instead, still dangling the minibot from his grip.

Tailgate squeaked at being lifted.  “Cyclonus?”

“Does this feel more comfortable?” Cyclonus purred, settling Tailgate on his lap.  Long arms twined around the minibot, coaxing him to lie back, while the warrior began to rub the tight plating over Tailgate’s fuel tanks.  Tailgate’s engine hiccupped, but he allowed himself to relax and drape over Cyclonus, hooking his own arms idly over Cyclonus’s.  Tailgate let out a loud, sparkfelt sigh that subsided into a low groan.  “ _Oh,_ yes, that’s better.  Ooooh.”

Cyclonus kept stroking the warm belly of the overstuffed minibot in his arms, the warrior’s fingers tracing long, lazy paths from hip to hip.  He leaned forward enough to rest his chin on Tailgate’s head.  “So.  Tell me more about this Earth festival.”

“Well,” Tailgate began, his visor dimming and his voice drowsy, but clear, “humans have a whole pantheon of evil gods who they think walk on the night of the festival.  They’re led by the faithful servant of Mortilus, a fleshy called Michael Myers…”


End file.
